Holy shit
That's a direct quote, btw, from the Boy Child, sent seconds after the game-ending double play that gave my beloved Cubs their first National League pennant since "The War to end All Wars" was still a thing.
It's a sentiment I echoed fwiw. And still do.
Like many of you (at least the ones that share my affliction) I've spent the seconds, minutes, and hours (Oxford comma, it's ok. Really, it is) not only basking in the afterglow of last night's win, but thinking of the Cubs fans that aren't here to enjoy these moments.
I think of Diane and her Kerry Wood #34 jersey, one she wore often that last summer. And I wonder how many of these games we would have gone to, damn the cost. Not that she was extravagant, but she loved the team and I'm fairly sure she would've talked me into it.
For the record, it would not have taken much effort.
I think of my Mom and Dad, as many of my nieces, nephews, and my kids have. I think of how I owe my Cubs fandom to them, and all the time (and times) we spent watching or listening to their games. How, all summer long, regardless of the quality of play, it was a backdrop to much of what we did. I think it was the Oldest One that posted a comment about Gram, sitting at the kitchen table, fingers crossed, hands in a position of prayer, watching last night's game. And that's spot on, too. Actually, let me take a minute here to blame Mom for creating the superstitious sports fan in me. It's only been in the last few years that the rational part of my mind convinced the rest of my gray matter that the seat I chose, or the hat I wore, or whatever random act that happened to occur miles away from the actual event had no bearing at all on the outcome. That's all you El, lol. And if you ever watched a game with her, you know exactly what I'm talking about.
I don't recall the moment I knew I was a hopeless Cubs fan. But I do remember, vividly, standing in front of the TV in the living room of the house on Burlington Road (the blacktop for you long timers) swinging an imaginary bat along with the Cubs teams of the mid to late 60's and running imaginary bases in the living room. I even remember doing my best impression of the public address announcer back then as he called the next batter to the plate. Ernie Banks and Ron Santo were, of course, two favorites of mine, their joy for the game obvious even to the sub ten year-old me. But I always had a spot in my heart for Billy Williams. He was, and still is, an under appreciated ball player, Hall of Fame berth notwithstanding. Billy had the most beautiful swing, one I can still see clearly in my mind's eye. In fact, as I got a little older, yet still too young to understand my "skill set" would take me no farther (further?) than Little League, I decided I needed to learn how to be a switch hitter. And I patterned my left-handed swing after Billy's. Poorly, I might add, but still.
As I sit here, trying to put into words all the feels I'm feeling, reading and watching reactions of others, either fans or the players themselves, one thing came into focus for me. This is, for long suffering fans, an emotional event. And, for an emotional-type person such as myself, tears at a moment like this are pretty common. Yet, last night, watching the game and the aftermath, and occasionally texting with the Boy Child as we watched, I lost exactly one tear. And I don't even know if that one counts since I don't remember it rolling down my cheek, more like it got reabsorbed into the eye it tried to leave. And I'm not sure why that was all I had. If you know me IRL or if you've spent any time around here, you know how I am. For an event that I felt so personally attached to via my lifetime spent watching the Cubs play (mostly poorly) I expected feelings that were more visceral than logical, you know?
Maybe I understand that this is only another step on the teams journey, that the ultimate goal is not to make the World Series, but to win the World Series. I hope that's it. I hope that the adult in me has convinced my inner ten year old that this is a fine thing, but there's more, so much more, that waits and that will be far sweeter than anything that has been experienced yet. I've lived through a Bears Super Bowl (an NFL Championship too, but I was too young), six NBA titles (thanks Michael Jordan!), and four Stanley Cups (like with the Bears I only remember the most recent three) and all of those were great as a fan.
But this, this is different.
The Cubs are my first love.
They are attached to so many memories, good and bad; whether baseball-related or not.
I don't, of course, know what the next week will bring. None of us do. But I'm going to enjoy every minute of being a Cubs fan. Win or lose, I'm going to watch, or at least listen, to as much of this as I can. And I'll think about everyone that would've loved these moments, unleashing a lifetime as a frustrated fan.
They may win, they may not. Either way, life will go on. And I'm going to enjoy every minute it.
But I have a hunch it won't be 71 years before they get back to the World Series.
Go Cubs!
Peace
No comments:
Post a Comment